The Wicked Horse Boxed Set (The Wicked Horse Series)

by Sawyer Bennett

  “I’ll be there in half an hour,” I tell him, not asking if he minds me taking up his time. I disconnect the phone and step on the gas once I get out of town.

  It ends up taking me almost thirty-five minutes because of a minor traffic jam caused by rubbernecking tourists. Dozens of cars pulled haphazardly off the road, some with their ass ends still in the lane of travel. People jumping out of their cars without a care that there’s still traffic on this two-lane rural road that will flatten their asses.

  But that’s part of living in Wyoming, and I slow to a crawl as I navigate my way past travelers who are standing on the side of the road in a large group. I recognize a park ranger’s truck and while we’re technically outside of the Teton National Forest, they’ll respond to dangerous wildlife calls. And I see immediately as I creep by what the hubbub is about. About two hundred yards into a pasture covered with sagebrush and dried grass, a grizzly bear is lying on top of what is probably an antelope carcass. He’s massive and appears to be gnawing on the neck of his kill. It’s the park ranger’s duty to keep the tourists at a safe distance because there’s always one moron in the group who wants to sidle closer for a better picture opportunity. Once I make my way past the minor traffic jam, I fight the temptation to speed to make up the lost time. It’s not worth the cost of a ticket or the extra time that would be lost if I’m stopped.

  When I pull up to the Double J office, I park in between Bridger’s red Corvette and Woolf’s black Range Rover. Grabbing my phone off the seat beside me, I get out of my truck without locking it up. Nothing of value in there to steal and no one would anyway. That’s not the way we do things in Wyoming.

  I trot up the steps and push open the door to the ranch office, which is actually an old homestead on the ranch. I think it might have even belonged to Woolf’s grandpa or something.

  The sounds of Bridger and Woolf’s voices pull me down the hall, and I find them both in Woolf’s office. Woolf is sitting in his chair behind his desk, booted feet propped up on the scarred, wooden top. Bridger sits in a large chair done in cowhide on the opposite side and sips on a container of coffee.

  “Morning, sunshine,” Woolf says with a big grin on his face.

  “Good to see you, man,” I say with a laugh as I take an identical chair next to Bridger. He tips his chin up at me and grumbles, “What’s so important you needed to see me first thing this morning?”

  I know Bridger and Woolf’s time is valuable—far more than mine is, as all I have to do today is run a tattoo shop—so I don’t beat around the bush. “Cat’s in trouble and I need some advice. Maybe some direction.”

  “Who the fuck is Cat?” Bridger says with his eyebrows furrowing in.

  “Sorry,” I say quickly. “Catherine.”

  “Vaughn?” Bridger asks for clarification.

  “Lyons,” I say automatically, and his eyebrows draw inward again.

  “Who?”

  Shaking my head, I hold up a hand for him to let me speak and start again. “She goes by Cat, her maiden name is Lyons, and she prefers to be known as that. I found her sleeping in her car in the parking lot of The Wicked Horse two nights ago and found out she’s homeless.”

  “What the fu—?”

  I cut him off because again… time valuable and all. “Local attorney showed up at the house in Jackson and told her she had to vacate. That the will left her nothing and his son was demanding she leave. She was allowed to leave with nothing but her clothes, jewelry, and a little cash. All credit cards shut down.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me?” Bridger growls as he sits up straight in his chair. I quickly see he’s taken as much offense to this notion as I have. While Cat is but a member of The Silo, Bridger takes care of his own. I also know he has a soft spot for her and worries about her at times.

  “She went and got a copy of the will, but here’s the kicker… it’s not signed. The attorney insists the signed copy is in Vegas. Cat’s thinking about calling one of the sons and asking for a copy with the supposed signatures, but she’ll probably get the run around.”

  “Who’s the attorney?” Woolf asks.

  “Harlan Grables,” I tell him. “Know him?”

  “Yeah,” Woolf says. “Small-town lawyer, does a variety of stuff. Mostly speeding tickets and stuff. Kind of sleazy actually.”

  “Which means there’s no way in hell he drafted the legitimate will of a billionaire hotelier from Vegas,” Bridger concludes.

  “You think the attorney’s lying?” I ask incredulously. “But why?”

  “Could be the son paid him to draft the bogus document to get her out of the house,” Bridger says with a careless shrug to his shoulders. “Could be Samuel’s real attorney drafted it, the signed one is in Vegas, and the son had a copy here. He asked the attorney to enforce it, and the lawyer did so moronically without seeing the signed copy.”

  “I’m betting there’s not a signed copy,” Woolf chimes in. “The mere fact she’s been given the run around… I bet they’re just hoping she gets tired of waiting for an answer and will go away.”

  “Well, that’s not happening,” I say with a growl as I lean forward in my chair. “No fucking way.”

  I don’t miss both Bridger and Woolf’s eyebrows rising as they shoot each other a smirking look. Ignoring them, I ask, “Any bright ideas on what I should do? I’m letting her crash at my place until I can get her on her feet.”

  “Taking up her cause, huh?” Bridger asks slyly.

  “Something like that,” I mutter, but then I get distracted as my phone starts ringing to the tune of Maroon 5’s Wake Up Call. I roll my eyes without bothering to look at caller ID as that song tells me all I need to know. I press the decline button, sending Tarryn to voice mail.

  “Seems to me you still have your hands full,” Woolf says with a sly grin, looking down at my phone gripped in my hands.

  “I’ve got Tarryn handled,” I assure him. Because the only thing to do with her is ignore her. She’ll eventually get bored and move on.

  Temporarily at least.

  “I’ll give Cat a job off the books as a Fantasy Maker,” Bridger says. “Under the table, of course.”

  My head immediately shakes back and forth in denial. “She’s taking a break from The Silo. She needs a job far away from that shit.”

  “Come on, dude,” Woolf says as he swings his feet off his desk and sits up in his chair. “Catherine was born to be a Fantasy Maker.”

  Maybe my personal fantasy, I think for a brief moment before anger over Woolf’s innocently callous words overtakes me.

  “That shit’s off the table,” I snap at him, and he blinks at me in surprise. “And clearly you two don’t have any helpful advice.”

  I surge up out of the chair and mutter to Bridger, “Catch you later.”

  I storm out of the Double J office but even as my own feet hit the dirt outside, I can hear Bridger saying, “Wait up.”

  Turning, I see him trotting down the steps toward me. “Cut Woolf some slack,” he says gruffly. “He doesn’t know.”

  “Know what?” I ask him, confused and slightly skeptical.

  Bridger’s head turns slightly, and he gazes out over the open range that stretches for miles with the Teton Mountains standing tall on the horizon. When he looks back at me, he scratches at his chin. “Cat… she forced by her husband to go to The Silo?”

  He worded it as a question, but I can tell he’s actually laying it out as a statement he wants verified.

  “Yeah.”

  “That motherfucker,” Bridger snarls, aiming his cowboy booted foot at Woolf’s front tire. It slams into the tread and bounces off as he curses under his breath.

  “Not your fault,” I tell him just loud enough to penetrate his curses. I know what he’s feeling right now and it’s guilt, plain and simple. That Cat was forced to do something she didn’t want to do. “And her experience isn’t all bad there. It’s complicated.”

  So fucking complicated.

  �
�She want a job at The Wicked Horse?” Bridger asks.

  I shake my head. “Still too close.”

  “Let me think on it,” Bridger says. “And I’ll also check into this attorney, but I’m betting he was just paid to enforce a document that may or may not be legit. Now, can I front Cat some money?”

  “I’ve got her covered,” I tell him, because fuck if I’m going to allow him to ride in and save the day for Cat. I’m not sure why I have this overwhelming need to protect her and help her. I mean, I feel for her. I really do. And she’s a great fuck, and it’s been awesome to have her right there in my apartment… but still, I can’t figure out why I have this strong of a connection to her cause.

  Bridger nods in understanding. “Alright, man. But I’ll help in any way I can.”

  “Appreciate it,” I tell him and turn toward my Suburban. While I might not want Bridger being Cat’s personal champion, I’ll gladly take any help he and Woolf can give me until we can figure out what’s best for her future.

  Chapter 8

  Cat

  Opening the oven, I take a quick peek at the meatloaf I have baking and then glance at the timer on the microwave I had set. Another ten minutes and it should be done.

  Rand had texted me a few hours ago letting me know he’d be home from work by seven. We had our first minor disagreement after I responded back to him that’d I’d cook dinner.

  His response was almost immediate. I’ll pick up pizza.

  I wasn’t sure whether to be offended that he was perhaps distrustful of my cooking or he was being an overly gracious host, but I sent him back a firm response. I insist. I want to do something nice for you.

  No need, he wrote back quite succinctly.

  I wasn’t so succinct. I’m cooking dinner and not arguing about it. I’ll have it on the table and ready to go at 7PM. If you can’t let me do something to show my gratefulness for your generosity, then I’m going to have to make alternative plans to stay somewhere else.

  His response was still just as short, just as quick, but it made me smile. Look forward to your cooking.

  It’s my hope he appreciates my efforts, although knowing Rand, that’s sort of a given. The more I come to know him, the more I admire the type of man—no, human—that he is. In all my dealings with him before at The Silo, I never looked past the exterior. He’s a glorious package and was one of my select favorites there. But let’s be honest… he was fucking a shell of a woman then. I closed off everything on the inside and would only let my body feel. With all the things that make me uniquely human shut down, there was nothing available by which I could see inside someone else. Not that I wanted to since it never occurred to me I could have a life outside of Samuel. That I could have someone truly care for me. I never even hoped for such a thing because you can’t hope for something that you don’t even understand.

  That you don’t even know exists in the world.

  So without that knowledge, there was never any need for me to look past the exterior of any man who had me. I was nothing but a vessel to them, and they were nothing but a few moments of physical pleasure that hopefully outweighed the shame of what was happening to me.

  After our text exchange, I drove to the grocery store and put a dent in my meager funds, coughing up $9.63 for some ground bison, an onion, and some milk. The milk was for the box of macaroni and cheese I found in a cupboard. He had butter, ketchup, eggs, and spices, so I had everything else I needed for meatloaf and macaroni and cheese. Very simple and basic. I considered throwing in a green vegetable too, but I actually got sidetracked in the grocery store when I started thinking about Rand and how perfectly he was able to play my body last night. Which is weird. I never think about sex in general, but I seem to be obsessed with Rand and how he makes me feel in bed. Out of bed too, so to speak, as he got me to easily open up to him. Telling him my secrets and shames last night was freeing. The fact that he listened without judgment speaks volumes.

  So yeah… I got sidetracked thinking about Rand and walked out of the grocery store without a veggie. Rand doesn’t have any vegetables among his canned goods, which leads me to believe he probably doesn’t like them anyway.

  I think I’m a decent cook, and it’s something I enjoy doing. Granted, I haven’t had a lot of opportunity to experiment, but I can hold my own with the basics. Growing up, I had to fend for myself so I could get pretty damn creative. Once I left home, I took whatever food I could get, and it was often just a stolen candy bar or something. With Samuel, we had a chef when we were in Vegas. In Jackson, I did get to cook for us, although he’d never hand down a compliment to me even if he thought it was the best food ever. Not going to say I didn’t think about poisoning him a time or two, especially when he’d farm me out to others, but I just don’t have that in me, I guess. Samuel’s food remained healthy and poison free, even though I hated him enough that I hoped his advanced age would get him sooner rather than later.

  Or that he’d choke on a chicken bone, it being fortuitous that I did not know how to do the Heimlich maneuver.

  The macaroni is done boiling, so I go about fixing the cheap box of Kraft, adding in extra butter because that makes everything taste better. By the time the meatloaf is done and I’m pulling it out of the oven, I hear the door to the apartment open. My entire body goes on hyper-alert, and a rush of giddy excitement runs through me.

  Rand’s here.

  The sensation is so startling that it takes a moment to realize the heat from the glass dish of meatloaf is starting to sting through the towel I’d grabbed it out with. I hurriedly set it on the stovetop.

  “Smells amazing,” Rand says from behind me. I turn to him, feeling my cheeks get warm from the praise and the anticipation of seeing him.

  God… I’ve never felt this before. It’s how I imagine children feel on Christmas morning when they wake up and are beside themselves with excitement to know what Santa left them. I’ve never had that experience, but I had friends at school who did, so I could easily envision it.

  I’ve most definitely never felt it for another man because I never really had a serious relationship before. I’ve made attempts, but I always picked poorly. When you’re sometimes homeless and occasionally stripping to pay rent, the choices for “good guys” are relatively lacking. I guess that’s why Samuel seemed like such a godsend at first when he showed interest in me.

  Rand’s eyes flick from the meatloaf to me. His gaze lingers in a long, slow slide up and down my body. The giddiness ramps up as I feel a rush of dampness between my legs. Normally, when I feel the signs of lust coming on, my body and persona tend to take on a life of its own. I know how to work my assets and incite the same lust in someone else with either a particular look or a sway of my hips.

  But right now, I’m not feeling the need to do that with Rand. In fact, I feel a little off kilter. Rather than give him a sensual look of invitation, because let’s face it—I would not say no if he wanted to have sex right now—I blush even deeper if the heat in my face is any indication.

  Rand notices this because I don’t miss the quick flash of amusement on his face but rather than make me feel uncomfortable about it, he merely gives me a boyish smile and asks, “Do I have time for a quick shower before we eat?”

  “Sure,” I say, because the food isn’t going anywhere.

  “I’ll only be about five minutes,” he says as he turns toward the bathroom. I figure I could use the time to set the table, but then I see him peel his shirt over his head as he walks away from me and all thoughts of plates, utensils and napkins evaporate.

  And this time, the dampening of my panties is enhanced by a cramping need of want low in my gut. Just looking at his naked back roped with lean muscle and colored with tattoos incites me to near madness with desire for him. I look back to the meatloaf, and figure it’s safe enough where it is. I look back to the bathroom, where Rand has shut the door. Noticing it is not quite shut all the way, I wonder if it’s an invitation.

  I look ba
ck to the meatloaf and consider my options.

  Rand originally made it clear that there were no expectations of sex in exchange for his generosity in letting me stay here. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t sex, as evidenced last night by the repetitive and stellar sex we did have. I’ve had that beautiful man in my body before at The Silo, but last night was different. Last night, it was personal and moving. It was in the sanctity of his home. It was within a caring embrace. He saw me as more than just a vessel, and I literally felt the difference in the very marrow of my bones.

  So last night had nothing to do with paying him my share of the rent. That was because he wanted it and I wanted it.

  The meatloaf is definitely a gesture of my gratitude, but if I were to walk in that bathroom right now, would he know it’s because I want him and that it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with payback?

  Only one way to find out.

  I drape the towel in my hand over the warm pot of mac and cheese before walking to the bathroom door. I can hear the water running and the unmistakable sound of hot spray against skin. Before I can talk myself out of it, I push against the door and slip inside.

  Rand’s bathroom is small, but it does have a tub against one wall with a navy blue shower curtain that completely hides him from my view. I can only imagine what he looks like on the other side… maybe rubbing soap all over the planes of his body, or maybe his eyes are closed and face serene while he washes his hair.

  But before I can wonder any further, I hear a low groan issue from the other side of that curtain. I recognize the nature and tone of that sound because I’ve heard it often before, and I know exactly what he’s doing now. Without hesitation, I step forward and peel the curtain back a bit near the foot of the tub.

  And oh my God… it’s better than I ever imagined. Rand has his face tilted to the ceiling to let the hot water hit him on the top of his head. His eyes are indeed closed and his lips slightly parted.